Thursday, May 31, 2007

I wanted to quickly write you before I head out the door to get my run in, and let you know how much I enjoyed our conversation! I really appreciate your willingness to listen to me, and hopefully have an understanding of what I'm looking for.

I think your idea is a wonderful one, and hopefully all the necessary factors will work out for us to begin creating experiences for each other, starting with a nice dinner…perhaps we could plan on meeting around… depending of course upon your schedule and availability.

I hope my picture comes through ok, and need to apologize up front for the lack of quality of the photo. Hopefully it will serve the purpose until we actually do meet.

Thanks again for the lovely conversation, and I believe we have much to discover with each other :-)

Have a fun and safe weekend, and I look forward to your email soon,Tourist

Notes for the student: - Correct spelling and use of polysyllabic words indicate Tourist’s willingness to communicate in the appropriate forms. - Mention of his “run” indicates probable lack of pasty waistline fat. - The translator may or may not choose to indicate the slightly submissive tone.

Mandy responds, indicating her desire to know more about him as a person, her interest in knowing more about his fantasies, and:

…we should both be on the same page as far as the financial side goes. Generally, I receive a gift of $XXXX for an afternoon through early evening or late afternoon through late evening plus the next morning meeting. This includes my time, travel and hotel, and fun conversations before and after via phone and email. Shorter meetings (long afternoon or long morning) can be arranged with a 25% reduction. I really like to be able to focus on you not just in our time together, but before and after for enough time that we can truly feel a connection, and I think this will be especially helpful in terms of extended role-playing.

I'm looking forward to meeting you. As I mentioned, I am in the Midwestern City area for something else so you are not 'on the hook' for most of my travel, but if you would like to gift me for my time I will leave that to your discretion.

xo - and a little slap on the hand -

Mandy

Notes for the student: - Mandy indicates that her emails and conversations are included in her fee, thus clarifying up front that they are paid time. This is as much for her benefit as for his, reminding herself that taking on too many things leads to doing them all poorly. - Mandy sets a test for Tourist – will he show his generosity on the very first meeting? - Note suggestive closing, a foray into whether or not Tourist may be interested in D/s in addition to his stated desire to roleplay.

***

Dialogue Two

Tourist responds cautiously:

The only part I didn't quite get is the "xo - and a little slap on the hand - "Not sure if I said something that upset you, but hope I didn't, and didn't mean to if I did.

One must always be willing to clarify intention in a new language:

It's a playful little smack, not because you did anything bad, but because perhaps you'll like it :)

Glad to hear I didn't do anything wrong, and it looks like you have a pretty good intuition about me :-) I'm so ready to have you help expand my horizons!

***

You have successfully completed this practice dialogue. Now try some conversation with your new friends!

Monday: more History.

A PS to Anonymous Girl on the Verge – I think my closing comment about ‘competition’ sounded way snarkier than I meant. Holler if you would like an apology.

Wednesday, May 30, 2007

In my inbox, a missive from a man I had exchanged emails with earlier in the year, smart, claims to be in good shape (runs), articulate, well-spelled.

I promptly confuse him with someone else. Fortunately, my comment to him about thinking he had quit the hobby (the someone else had posted a little board drama about focusing on his personal life, especially after the STD scare ) wasn’t a big deal.

In the spirit of the Third Way, I reply that I am no longer seeing gentlemen on an hourly basis, only long dates. Back he comes – he has just last week flown in a young lady from Minneapolis, dinner, dessert (points off for “desert”), breakfast.

Now we’re both speaking the same language. Call it Whoredu. Like Urdu, but spoken by mostly aspirational ladies, a couple of native ladies and a few select men mostly living in urban centers. I had honestly not expected to encounter it in Midwestern Region, and here I am confronted with, not a native, but an earnest student, showing off his ability to locate the pencil of my aunt. (Here’s what I speak – English, French, Japanese, ASL, well enough to discuss the weather but not well enough to talk about God. Whoredu is coming slowly but I think I’m a natural.) Doctor-fucking-Livingstone, I presume?

I ring him, speeding along through Indiana as is my wont, putting on the cruise to avoid racking up another $200 a year on the insurance. His voice is an orange, round and heavy and a little rough. I tell him very clearly and in small words that I am only looking for men I genuinely want to be with, where the gift is genuinely to compensate for time lost from my other life. Il comprend, wakarismashita, forefinger flicking upward. He mentions that part of what he enjoys about ladies on the side is exploration and fantasy. My mental robot indicates that an untranslatable sign has been given. For once, I catch it the first time instead of realizing later that I have, somewhere back at the beginning of the conversation, missed something vital to comprehension.

“You sound like you might have something specific in mind when you say “fantasies”…?

His tongue unlocks, suddenly he is fluent, there are naughty nurses giving private exams while the doctor has stepped out and hot teachers making students stay after class to rewrite essays and slutty business women coming back from the ladies’ room one more button undone than they started with, panties in their hand for him.

“Do I get a ruler?” I giggle engagingly and listen.

A grammatical misstep from lack of familiarity, he tells me he’s getting hard just thinking about the role-playing, native Whores know this is crass, don’t touch the fruit in a British market stall. I let it slide, tourist, and then there’s a bing! on the magic words

tease

and

denial.

Do I want to set up an elaborate role-play with emails and phone calls in character, meet my little tourist, chaperone him through the fun of roleplay (no-one’s played this particular type of game with him yet), quietly mention the etchings in the back room, very rare, sir, but some scholars like to… Feel the way down the passage where I think he’s heading, mild D/s and perhaps the intercourse is adjectives, complex-compound sentences, the subjunctive clause, not the topical noun in the present tense at all?

Damn right I do.

I have grown powerful through conceptual mastery, and I tell him I want a picture of him. I let him know at the last minute (mostly unintentionally) that no, sorry, tomorrow won’t work but how about another day? We settle on a day for a get-to-know-you lunch. I raise the price 25% from Be-My-Real-Friend because Tourist is not cute in his picture, he wants a lot of time and planning, and I will have to be both responsible and creative. I am ready to walk away at the slightest provocation, Gillette,Z,Juno,C,LFM, Beautiful Girl holding a seat at their table, Gentle Readers waving phrasebooks, travel essays, a magazine for the train, these great pills that totally did the trick.

I hope he will be as nice as he was on the phone, better-looking than his picture--it’s truly awful, he can’t possibly be worse...knock wood, merde, gambatta kudasai, fingers touching lips L-U-C-K.

Tuesday, May 29, 2007

I paused a moment before opening the hotel room door, knowing that he wasn’t inside but still disappointed when he wasn’t inside. Before he left, I tucked the second key into his pocket, “In case you want to come back.”

It’s not wanting. It’s flight schedules and long work days and money, always money. Once we had a phone date, both on our cells in different cities having dinner, but I drove to New Orleans instead of Atlanta and met him in the restaurant, the staff charmingly congratulatory when the live girl walked up in dress and heels (I showered and changed at a truck stop, the transformation from driving sweats to dinner girl fazing the guys in the shower line) and they reseated us from the bar where he’d anticipated talking on his phone to a charming corner table, extra appetizers, have a glass of wine on us.

So I am only a little crushed.

Later, Lover rings me, at least I know he left the party alone, he had a little with the hostess but couldn’t outwait the other guests at the end of the day, the three days. Music’s glamorous but it’s hard, the energy pours out indiscriminately and I never worry about the ones who listen, they’re part of a herd. But colleagues are another story, and jealousy is not the problem but possessiveness is. It’s not my call to make. If he is to be a fellow traveler and not a thing to be used and discarded, he cannot be just mine, it demeans, lessens, makes me too sure.

Today I was in Claire’s, hair flowers, tights, purses, tiaras, little notebooks, cheap pleasure in my basket and half-off from the nice guy behind the counter (I ask about a Hair-i-gami to make clever buns, Hans knows immediately it’s wrong for the texture of my hair, so much for retail drones not caring). I want some earrings. Something small, that I can not bother to take out before bed. I want Lover to give me some earrings. Small gold hoops that I can wear all the time, real gold, probably not from Claire’s…

I’m half an hour back on the job before the symbolism crashes into my brain.

Saturday, May 26, 2007

OK, I don’t normally write about political issues, but I read about the Ted Klaut arrest over at Radical Vixen’s, and it made me wonder – does the anti-woman, anti-choice, anti-midwife legislation go hand-in-hand with the proclivity to child rape and molestation of young women and girls under one’s care because, well, perhaps one is so fat and ugly (there’s a picture) and mentally disgusting (my assumption) that he can only manage to fuck powerless women? Are Conservative Right Republicans so anti-woman because it increases their potential sexual partners? Are they so set on no-sex-before-marriage because then the woman won’t know that his penis is small and he’s lousy and/or selfish in bed? Anti-gay because it’s a whole new set of options that don’t include fucking them? It sure would explain a lot...

Friday, May 25, 2007

What I received: Boys are never friends. The only reason to talk to a boy is if you’re going to play the game. The only reason to call one is to tell him you’re available

Sexual Athlete calls and calls and texts and texts. I finally send him an email to tide him over, tell him I’m not generally seeing people but have a new way of doing things. The grasping fingers in me want his money, his legal advice, and very little else. Nothing else. Especially not his grasping fingers in me.

I finally call him. How’s his life, how’s his business, he just got out of a meeting and has a charming little anecdote about Navy aircraft carrier landings and the signs and gestures involved, including a slang gesture for “get your head out of your –“. Sexual Athlete uses this sign in meetings to indicate his displeasure with the speaker. Bet working with him’s as fun as fucking him for money. I’m sure the checks clear. I tell him about having seen a gentleman in another city, and how much more fun it was to spend real time, human time instead of rental time. Sadly, he’s interested. Guess it’s a better deal than I thought. I tell him I’ll send him financial information and quickly formulate a plan of delaying that as long as possible, ‘cause you know, it’s my body, I can’t stand fucking him, hate his rough hands, his spit that gradually smells worse and worse, his bad oral, and so the logical conclusion is to (as a liberated woman) take ownership of my body and deny him access by...stalling.

While I follow this train of thought through the murky Tunnel of Indecision, Sexual Athlete is critiquing my blowjob skills, he prefers less hand action and more mouth. I imagine giving him the Navy sign for “Well, tell me at the time, dumbass, you’re paying” Or better yet, the sign for “Secretly, I’m not interested at all, can we wind this up?” I tell him flat out, partly as revenge, but still nicely enough that I’m sure it doesn’t penetrate, that I don’t come from oral and I won’t be faking it. Now he’s babbling on about ice cubes again – I jumped back and said no in person, I answered his email question with no, too cold, and now he’s suggesting putting them on my nipples instead. Not a listener, our Sexual Athlete.

Why, LFM? Why do we keep going when it so clearly sucks, why do we give them another chance, another ten minutes, hoping it will get better or feeling obligated to see it through? He’s not attractive to me, though as far as clients go, he’s Brad Pitt on a bad day (some baby spit-up and a hopefully growing realization that he’s not having quite the same experience as his partner, but still hot) compared to the usual rank of pasty guys in pants with a partially-elastic waist. He’s not good in bed, he makes me sore, I don’t like his attitude or the way he sheds bodily hair, I feel like a service provider.

My mother’s mother said to her and then she said to me:

Always go out with a boy at least once if he asks you, he might have a nice friend.

Thursday, May 24, 2007

Hotel room. Nice hotel room. Cable, though we're not going to turn the TV on. I've booked it, like always. I'm wearing: nothing as nice as I'd like to be.

He takes off his jacket, folds the tie into the pocket. The tie was a gift (my gift).

He does not leave the money on the dresser.

He does not check the closet or the bathroom or put on the chain lock or draw the blackout drapes. He likes how I look in sunlight, I love light coming softly through thin white curtains.

(I said on the phone, please don't urge me to come)

I’m shy, my tummy feels big, my lips feel clumsy, I don’t know what to do with my hands and then I remember I don’t do anything with my hands. There is talk, unrushed, unhurried, funny, all the time in the world, the clock unwatched, minutes uncounted.

His body is strong and sit-upped and nearly hairless, the flats of my hands on his chest, his hands on my back, my waist, my hips. Shyness rises in my throat to choke me and we look at pictures for awhile. It’s been some time, he’s been gone since March, two months making his living, finally not “the support,” finally the act. And then in the middle of the West Coast, San Fran harbor, LA skyline, Sonoma curving away in yellow-green swathes, he takes out his cock and takes me by the hair. The smell of him and I’m back in our time, he does not hold too hard, it takes time to remember.

My mouth on his cock, he never hardens immediately, with new girls sometimes not at all. I like this, I like taking his length into me, pressing down until I gag, his hand holding me a fraction long enough, his half-erection strong enough to cradle with my lips around the base, my tongue pressing rhythmically against the underside of his cock, them sliding up to have him enter and re-enter my lips. His hand is harder on my head, tighter on my hair, the ones who pay are gentle, reluctant to take and that’s best. But this is nursing at his cock and being forced to what I want and having pleasure taken, taken from my mouth and hands gently pinching his flesh, nails softly digging his scrotum.

He pulls me over him, kisses my breasts, pinches my nipples hard. I ride him in my panties, his pants still up but open, pressing into him, the edge of rawness starting from the seams rubbing into the insides of my labia, and just when I think I’ll have to stop or I’ll be too sore to go on, orgasm comes in waves, starting from my bent knees, from the vise grip of his thumb and finger on my nipple, meeting in the middle of my spine, sacrum, sacred in a way I haven’t had in months.

(I’ll pay for the hotel, I say, since you’re flying out here. Are you sure, he asks? I insist, he tells me later he gave in because it seemed less like a client. Clients always pay for the hotel, I book it and they pay me back.)

He rolls me over, his shirt open, I slide it down his arms and toss it to the chair. He takes my shirt over my head, pulls my panties to the side. His cock is in his hand, he holds it to enter me, leaning over me, he gasps and ducks his head, it feels like genuflection every time.

We fuck.

There is clean sweat. There is missionary, cowgirl and me coming again at medium intensity as he watches intently, refamiliarizing with my face, mouth stretched wide, eyes closed tight. He rotates me firmly and I come again in reverse cowgirl, the flesh of his scrotum rubbing into my clit, squishy and nice to press, the short stubble of his shaved pubic hair rubbing my perineum, a winning combination. I’ll have one from Column A, one from Column B and oh yes, off the menu, some anal penetration please, pushing back, the double feeling of one hole pulling out the other pushing in and back the other way.

He hardens right before he comes in mish again, as always so hard that I am grateful it’s only in those ten strokes. I’d never do anal otherwise. The feeling of his come inside me, the feeling of no latex no reservoir tip no painfully rubbing ring at the base of his cock, well, I’d pay for that. Pay in love and kisses.

We rest.

I ask him to fist me, perhaps a bit much for a first time back, but he already knows I’m on my period (I forgot to mention, the bleeding when he took me from behind alarmed him, possibly turned him on, too, I didn’t ask but he was awfully hard, blood and my filthy fuck-me mouth usually do the trick) and it makes me want. His fingers inside me, farther than before, I’ve been fucking all afternoon, it greases the wheels, so to speak. I push against him, bullet on my clit, writhing at rollercoaster speed and trying, trying, trying to have the release, I’ve come three times already plus a half when easing past his knuckles, and each time I’ve stayed up, tight, E-string tuned high and not unwinding, the kite line stuck on the paper towel tube.

I push, I will never reach his wrist, I’m too tight for his fingers to curl inside, his hands too long, but there’s another quarter inch that makes me think “How bad can childbirth be?” and then there is release from knees, thighs, the vibrations from Doc Johnson spreading through my chest, the top of my head, my face goes numb and red and unpretty, shrieking and gasping. Blood is everywhere, pooled on the bed below me, under his nails, his hand leaves a print on my leg.

He kisses me.

(It’s not different because of who pays for the hotel, it’s different because it’s you.)

Wednesday, May 23, 2007

...At a business meeting, an attorney tells me his one case that made news, two children killed when a driver hit the back of the tractor they were riding. “The fact that my client was intoxicated when he hit them was not relevant,” he earnestly volunteers. “It was a rainy night, the road curved, and the tractor did not have rear reflectors. The tractor driver and his wife later divorced, one of the children was theirs and I think they couldn’t handle being at fault.” I think, there's not enough money in the world...

...I write in a word document and then copy-paste to the blog. I’ve decided that when I’m at 100 pages I will start looking for literary representation to make this sucker (or the content thereof) a book. 78 single-spaced and counting...

...One way to tell if you would whore – how much could you charge? Check out the Provider Price Predictor, which will weight your age, sex, looks and personality to advise you on a fair rate in your area and across America! Get a friend to help you rate yourself, it's a great way to acquire some hurt feelings! Is my face really a 6 or is Power Girl just working from a different generational reference? (It's best you not answer that, Gentle Readers)...

Monday, May 21, 2007

These privacy concerns [about sending out possibly identifying pictures] are all that keep me from following a comparable course as yours.

As a writer and artist (struggling, of course), I anticipate receiving some publicity at some point, hopefully some success. I intend to be very selective, taking the 'courtesan' route from the start. And although I would have no shame about any whoring or other sex work I do in the interim, I'd nevertheless prefer to keep those activities separate from my public work -- at least until I'm ready to connect the dots myself, which in fact I look forward to doing, but on my terms.

As far as doing this at all, well...I cannot advise. But I can offer both my response, and Jenna Jameson’s.

Jenna, on becoming a porn star: Porn is not a career, or even an option, for most women. But if you are seriously interested, consider what you will be doing with the rest of your life, because even if you become a nun afterwards, you will always be known as having done porn.

When you come out, on your own terms or otherwise, some of your friends will be upset that you did this, and some of them will be pissed you didn’t trust them enough to tell them about it at the time. I’m walking a fine line with Power Girl right now where I don’t know how much is right to tell her for her own peace of mind – she’s great at keeping secrets, I trust her judgment and value her input in this as in other things, but how much does one really want to know about one’s good friend’s sex life? Am I doing enough for her in return? How fair is it to put her in the position of Secret-Keeper? (We all know what happened to Peter Pettigrew)

...

Walking through the airport on the way back from seeing Be-My-Real-Friend, I’m craving something. Walk and look. Starbucks? Juice? A book? No, what I really want is to be writing. For the first time in my life I’m experiencing drive and compulsion to write every day. My days write themselves in my head in realtime, I’m one of those awful people at Disney, video camera strapped to face, I’ll watch my vacation at home later.

In the long run, this blog will be a book. Daily readers are the kick in the ass I need to write every day instead of when it’s convenient and inspired (almost never). Gentle Readers who ask if I’m OK when I haven’t posted – you help me be the writer I need to be.

But there’s a catch. If the blog becomes a book, a good book, sells lots of copies in the airport, someone will out me. It is, in this day and age, almost unavoidable. I don’t know enough about internet anonymity, and honestly, part of me must be willing to stand up and own what I write, or I’d have done more research. Fear for me is not fear of being outed, it’s fear of being insignificant. Unknown. If the book isn’t successful enough and good enough for someone to want to out me (and get paid a great deal for the information), then I will have failed.

And when I’m outed, when the book is huge and I’m on Oprah or probably someone more open-minded’s chat show, I will have made a choice.

I have based a lot of my life on not choosing.

Husband and Lover. And more.Wife and worker.Home and travel.Writer and other job and other job and yes, one more job, to the point where I wonder, if I cut out the rest and focused on one, would I go up like a rocket, energy condensed?

In high school, my [one subject] teacher told me, you’re wasting yourself, you should go into [my field]. Another told me I was wasting myself if I didn’t major in English and become a writer. My graduate mentor told me eventually I’d have to focus on one aspect of my field. My writing mentor tells me I should write more, perhaps only. So far, I haven’t made a choice.

What happens if I’m Mandy the Whore instead of Me? If all I can get is another book deal instead of my life?

Right now, I am shrapnel. Will I be a missile? Or just explode at launch?

...

Good luck, Anonymous Girl. Let us know how it goes. And you’ll forgive me if I hope you don’t become competition.

Sunday, May 20, 2007

I had a lot a lot a lot of fun making "Whore Sex Vs Not Whore Sex, Episode 2", and I'm very glad it was appreciated! I loved "Who Wants Pretty Blowjobs Anyway" (in the Top Three), and also highly recommend "Playing With Punishment Books" for those of us who wonder just how early everyone else realized they were into BDSM. But if you only read one sex worker post this week, "Reflections on the Foot Slut" captures both what we truly do and why we do it. Even the straight porn was especially well-written this week (and you know my position on poorly-written porn). So hang out and browse...

Mon 14th May, 07

The best of this weeks blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #80? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form.

Saturday, May 19, 2007

[nice compliments] May I ask you about something you touched on only briefly in a very early post?

At what point in your initial contacts with prospective clients do you first send them photos of yourself? How identifying are the pics you send? Is your face clearly visible? Is anything less than that acceptable to clients? How nekkid are the pics? What are your concerns about being recognized, and about losing control over your pics, for ex by someone posting them elsewhere, whether or not they're accompanied by other identifying details?

This is the easy part:

You send photos when you damn well want, of what you damn well please.

Some ladies post identifying pictures to their websites or on client/provider bulletin boards. Some put them on Craigslist, faces and all. Some have only a physical description and send photos via email. Some may never send photos and get the clients to take them on faith, based on a coffee meeting, or by turning up at a Meet&Greet event thrown by a local bulletin board. (I could have booked ten appointments from the M&G I went to without sending any pics at all, *and* I got to weed out guys I thought were creepy or icky without having to do ten coffee dates). I’ve looked at a lot of boards and a lot of websites, and the most common tactic is to post a decent body shot with your face hidden, cropped out, blurred, or wearing big sunglasses. I’ve also seen ladies who post absolutely non-sexual shots of themselves in normal street clothes, showing their face, and those who publish thumbnails of different parts.

I personally do not send face pictures to clients at all, though this may change now that I am seeing very few (right now, one) people whose real names and real jobs I know. The face picture I sent to Be-My-Real-Friend when it became clear after about fifteen emails that he was serious and legit was fully clothed and non-sexual. If you have a social networking page, send a photo from that (renamed) and then your line is, “Officer, I have no idea what you’re talking about – is some creepy stalker downloading my Myspace pictures?”

If you *want* to send pictures to a client, be aware that anyone who can’t make a decision to see you or not based on *one* photo that shows your general body shape and condition and *one* photo that highlights your best feature, is using your pictures to wank. Do not send them more until they pay and you want to use a photo as a thank-you or a lure for more business.

A sample interaction on a local board:

Desperate Guy With No Money: hi goddess how r u? pics?Mandy: Hi there, nice to hear from you! I only respond to pm’s written in complete sentences – thanks!DGWN$: Oh, i understand. I think u are hot! Can i see some pics?Mandy: If you’re interested in booking an appointment, let me tell you a little about myself… [2 paragraphs with big words, it’s a cut-and-paste] …If I sound like your kind of lady, will you tell me about yourself and where you’re located?

DGWN$ responds, I tell him he’s too far away to be my client, he says he understands and continues to send me requests for pictures about once a week. Delete!

For serious clients who introduce themselves, have references and write grammatically, I send one photo of my body in a form-fitting dress and one of my chest in a bra. I don’t send any nekkid pics (“nekkid” – Naked and Up To Something, thank you Lewis Grizzard) to men I know in a professional capacity. I don’t wear the clothes or underwear in my working girl pics in non-professional contexts. And if someone ever says, “Hey, isn’t that…” I’ll say, “Damn! That does look like me! I wonder how much she gets?” My pictures aren’t porn-ish enough (I think) for anyone to bother posting them all over the net, and I send them out at low res – enough so that they aren’t even clear if viewed except as an email attachment.

One thing that sticks out, though, in Anonymous Girl's phrasing:

Is anything less than that acceptable to clients?

It’s not what’s acceptable to them that counts, it’s what’s acceptable to *you*. You You You YOU YOU. If whoring is an option for you, it’s very, very important to draw your own lines and set your own boundaries, and it starts at first contact. If you’re shy about saying:

“Sorry, I don’t send additional pictures until you book” “No, I don’t give out ‘pink’ pics” or even, “I’d like to see a picture of you, too, will you send me one?”

I realize that Anonymous Girl is not dumb, and that she’s asking about marketing standards rather than jumping off a bridge with all her friends. But it is a slippery slope of self-perception, and remembering that you are (and must be) in charge of every step of the transaction is really important when you’re a whore. This is where review boards can be a blessing instead of a curse (read Compartments for an excellent summary of the bad side of boards. There’s usually a ladies-only area where you can ask questions and get a sense of what everyone else is doing. There’s almost always a thread about “Is this lame guy wasting your time/trying to beat down your rate/asking for more pics from you, too?” And the answer is always yes, yes, yes, I’ve put him on ignore.

I would say that more ladies don't show their faces than do. I would also say that the higher the price, the more likely the lady has professionally-taken magazine-quality shots, and the less likely she is to show her face. Check out the escorts at Demimonde and Pearl Elite Independents for lovely shots from which no-one could be identified.

Thursday, May 17, 2007

1) If she offers you a shower, it’s not a suggestion or a request. Many service providers have this on their website as a gently-worded section of the “What will our time be like?” page. Maybe you already are squeaky-clean…but she hates your cologne.

2) If your hands are empty, hers should not be full. This goes for when she’s got packages and is passing through doors as well as when her hands are full of cock. Put your fingers in her hair, your palm on her back, do something with them in return. Unless you’re acting out The Sultan and the Nubian Slave, in which case you’re paying extra not to carry her packages, so to speak.

3) If you’re not wearing a condom, she’s ovulating and HIV+. Don’t put your naked penis in a woman unless and until you like each other enough to hold hands in the waiting room.

4) Listening is not waiting for your turn to talk. If you have no clue what she’s babbling on about now, repeat her last sentence in a questioning tone. She’ll explain further. If you’re paying, you can say, “let’s not talk.” If you’re not paying – in cash or with commitment – try not to date her again if you can’t stand listening to her.

5) As discussed in my treatise on the one client who understood this, don’t ask her during sex, “What do you like?” The answer is either complicated or embarrassing – we want to pretend you automatically know, and if you’re paying us, we may not want what we normally like – we want what gets you off. Do something and ask “Do you like that?” If it’s personal, go for the play-by-play afterwards in the orgasm haze...

6) Don’t ask her where she keeps her money. Don’t ask what she spends it on. She may be saving up to be independent of you. Be a gentleman and wish her well.

7) No matter how tough she is, some days she needs to lean on you.

8) Apologize when you are not wrong. It costs you nothing and she may apologize back. At the very least, it defuses the situation.

9) Stroking her ego is part of foreplay. Telling her she’s hot makes her feel hot. Be as specific as you can.

Pour the chocolate chips into the glass bowl and microwave for a minute and thirty seconds or until the chocolate chips are gooey. Just like anal, it’s better to start slow and end up going longer than you planned than to burn your chocolate and have to start over with unpleasant memories.

Stir the chocolate with the fork, adding a pinch of cayenne and a pinch of cinnamon. I advise shaking them gently out of the package rather than using your fingers, because you will later forget and touch your eyes and tragedy will ensue. Special Tip: Cayenne and cinnamon in the Hispanic foods aisle cost about half what they do in the baking and spices aisle.

Add a shot of tequila. (Don't get into the tequila yet or you won't be able to taste the truffles.)

Stir some more and taste. Keep adding cinnamon and cayenne until you like how it tastes and you think “well, it could be a little spicier.” It will get spicier later. Lick the fork clean.

Stir in two big spoonfuls of cold whipping cream. The chocolate may start to become pasty right away. If it does, add a little more liquid, either cream or tequila. If it doesn’t, put it in the fridge. Either way, leave it sit (fridge or counter) for as long as it takes you to gratify your partner while kneeling on the kitchen floor (or masturbate to completion). No fair pretending and watching TV instead. If you are quick, you might need to go twice.

Wash your hands again and put a sheet of aluminum foil on the counter.

Pour a few spoonfuls of cocoa powder into the other bowl, add a tiny pinch each of cayenne and cinnamon and stir with the fork. This cayenne is going to make first contact with your tongue when eating the truffles, so be sparing.

Use the spoon to dig out walnut-size chunks of chocolate paste and mold them into balls with your fingers – work quickly and discover why the M&M candy shell is such a big deal. Roll each ball in the cocoa powder and set it on the foil, spaced apart. If you run out of cocoa powder, make more.

Let truffles sit while you have a second round (cook's choice), unless you live in a hot climate with no A/C (skip to next step). I recommend bent over the sink or sitting on the counter, depending on counter height. When you're done, if the truffles are still moist, roll them in cocoa powder one more time.

Feed yourself and your lover a truffle or two, then tuck the rest away on a foil-covered plate or in tupperware while you head to the bedroom for round three.

I’m not sure whether “Bon Appetit” or “Bottoms Up” is more appropriate. Consider them both said.

Allegiance: he warned me last time when girlfriend came along, I told him I was fine either way but couldn’t take a surprise, the coded phone call is the first tiny step towards the damp-sheeted tangle late one night to come.

No girlfriend this time. Just us. Two’s company, twelve’s a crowd.

Nudging my thigh between his legs when he hugs me

The junior colleagues’ faces fall, Power Girl and I are dressier, standing distant enough from the door to be a whole picture (“after you knock on the door, stand back a couple of steps…it’s important that the client gets the full image of you…” thank you, Sydney). We’re also older, more successful, less anxious, but we’re extra kind tonight and they relax. The hangers-on orbit gently. I’m a fool to dress for sex instead of the weather, Hairline Boy brings a sweater (white! cable knit! preppy beyond belief!) from his car and a long hug but the theatre is warmer even than his look.

His mouth is on my ear, his goatee tickles firmly

Into the theatre, up to the balcony, Secret Scientist, Power Girl and I deploy to the end of the row, Hairline Boy responsibly dealing with tickets is cut off at the pass, a sea of goth-y underage flesh between us.

My hand on his thigh, my nails on the inseam of his jeans

Secret Scientist brings a mug of tea, a beer, a bowl of noodles. He offers a bite and I suck the noodles off the fork, Asian sweet-vinegar in my mouth like sucking him. I adore being brought food, I adore sharing food, being fed, intimacy through basic need fulfilled.

sitting at Lover’s feet, my hands tied, fed salad and steak and then his cock…

The show, not all-around brilliant but decent, especially the actor we know. “Good,” Power Girl whispers, “now we don’t have to like him less.” We’re all facing forward, the stage light spills but the play is enough that no-one’s watching, the height of my crossed legs hiding us from all but Power Girl, who’s occupied mentally re-directing the show.

His hand gently beneath my hem, the outside of my thigh, the top of my thigh

In the interval, the dessert line, something sweet to share with Power Girl. Secret Scientist at the bar, I brush past him, a low tone less obvious than a whisper, “Do you know how much I want to fuck you right now?” “As much as I want to lick your pussy until you scream?”

My nails across his palm, the tips of his fingers across my palm

Applause and the lights go down. Secret Scientist’s mouth is on my ear, he says, “Open your legs.” It takes me a moment to understand and I do, his hand strong on thin lace panties, his fingers probing gently. I cross my legs again as his hand retracts and the lights come up all together. I clap and look left, he’s thoughtfully licking his fingers.

Sunday, May 13, 2007

Mon 7th May, 07

The best of this weeks blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #79? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form.

Saturday, May 12, 2007

I am looking for an attractive female who will at first give me obsessive love, praise and devotion - but whose paranoia, self-loathing and fear of rejection and abandonment will eventually lead her to alternately push me away and pull me closer in a love/hate cycle that will lead to infidelity, consensual sexual violence, and the eventual emotional breakdown of one or other party - or if we're lucky - both!

Friday, May 11, 2007

- Yes, I, too, totally freak out when seeing my real name on the Amazon Honor Box on someone else's blog. Do Not Panic - only you, when you are actually viewing the page, see the real name. For more info, click the bit that says "How do you know my name?" at the bottom of the box. Now start breathing again. Holler if you need CPR...

- Should I put an email link on this blog? On one hand, I've had a few people contact me and ask to email a comment that they want to share but not post publicly, and I've enjoyed some great conversations that way. On the other hand, will I be deluged with spam and hate mail?

- On another note, I joined the Top Five Group Writing Project for a lark, but now I'm genuinely enjoying looking at (gasp) blogs that don't talk about sex! At all! Not even a little bit! Like Gillette said, it's a window on a whole 'nother world.

- The world is especially beautiful today. My tulips are blooming, the sun is shining but not too hot, and Secret Scientist just called me to talk for a long time for no reason at all...

- I'm having a fun time with the labels function on here. Sometimes they are significant...

Adventure. You can claim the experience of hiring a whore without risking robbery, AIDS, herpes or a boring and/or icky time. Plus, you don’t have to guess which cologne I will find least objectionable. (Trick Question! The answer is None!)

Philanthropy. You may consider yourself a patron of the arts, without having to pretend to see deep meaning in plain blue panels, elephant dung, chainlink fencing, re-creations of the artist’s bedroom, spatter painting or anything by Jasper Johns. You need not wear black, Imitation of Christ or Vivienne Tam, and on days when the creative juices aren’t flowing for you, you may consider it an offering to the muse. (Hsnar, hsnar)

Gratification. Give $50 or more* and I will custom write a post featuring your favorite sexual acts (as performed in my head, or possibly in life, I’ve been around). Or a topic of special interest, if you’re feeling extra classy. There will be an associated picture…which you may choose to share with the Gentle Readers or keep to your greedy little self. Remember, though – even work to order must serve the dictates of this Muse.

Superiority. After contributing, you may look down on other, Less-Gentle Readers, secure in the knowledge that you have done your bit and may relax while they enjoy your sloppy seconds.

Seriously. It takes 1-2 hours to write a solid post, plus thinking time. As Be-My-Real-Friend aptly summarized, “I’m actually not paying you for sex, though it’s nice that it’s a sure thing – I’m paying for the time you would otherwise spend making a living, focused on your personal life, or having fun of your choice.” This is not a threat – I don’t plan to stop writing anytime soon (see here, here, and here). But I write better and more often if it’s putting cock in my mouth food on the table and cashmere sweaters on my back.

A little crass? Perhaps. But then again – you already know what I am. Now we’re just haggling over the price.

(thank you, Power Girl for the idea and Tom Paine for help with the box)

*if you wish to follow this plan, comment or drop a line and I will tell you how to donate anonymously and yet so I will know it’s you.

I am actually a secret agent. One day a sniper on the roof of Southport Middle School takes me out. I lie there, the center of attention, and Thomas Marshall Perry the Fourth (signs all homework T. M. Perry IV, upper right corner) realizes how beautiful I am when my glasses fall off.

Or...

After a whole six-weeks grading period exposed daily to my extreme intelligence and cleverness in fifth-hour Gifted class, T. M. Perry IV finally succumbs to the overwhelming seduction of meeting his intellectual equal. We jointly dominate the 8th-grade Quiz Team.

Reality. A semi-successful pool party/D&D game at my house, featuring Thom, his best friend Chris as DM, his little sister Stephany and me. And I lent him some of the Dragonlance books. (Don’t give me that look, they all went in a garage sale years ago and you know damn well you knew about the saga of the Twins.) Around the table, there was the kind of uneasy equality that’s understood won’t last on Monday morning. Thom was gruff and hard and hated his divorced mother for keeping him from his father and protected his sister. I answered more questions on Quiz Team.

(I have remembrances.)

Ever the entrepreneur, I’ve talked the manager into letting me create my own shift, 3-10. School ends at 2:38, I run down the hill from the English building, hop into my little grey car, 4 exits and I’m downtown. The tiny DJ booth is right inside the door, he doubles as the doorman, squinting from cool smoky darkness into the hot white parking lot.

Back to the dressing room, my black and pink Caboodle on the counter. Maybelline foundation on a damp sponge, eye liner, I always remember the VHS box cover of Angel – High School Honor Student By Day!! Hollywood Hooker By Night!!!! I’m no longer an honor student but I will eventually get the highest score ever recorded on the GED in my state as the nation’s only non-graduating National Merit Scholar (780 verbal, 760 math, thank you very much). Right now I’m using a 99-cent Wet-and-Wild pencil to completely fill in my lips with a dark, even mark. Usually I’m on the floor by 3:15, long before the bus I used to ride stops at the end of my parents’ street. Sometimes I arrive and Star, an amazon brunette with glasses and a puffy perm, has been holding down the stage solo since noon, three songs on, three off, the salesmen from the Chevy dealership appreciating her round ass in denim cut-offs, firm boobs in a red tie-front halter.

Shoes, black suede 3-inch from Spring Fling sophomore year. Stockings and garters because this is what I believe is sexy and my legs are fishbelly white from not wearing deck shoes on someone’s dad’s boat every weekend, taking bunny-eared pictures destined for prime yearbook real estate.

On Fridays and Saturdays I work until closing.

I don’t know where my parents think their 17-year-old daughter is.

My stage name is my best friend’s name, she’s back in her home country after an exchange. I dance to the Cure and think about her when I mouth the lyrics. I have met Jim, I have read 9 ½ weeks and oh yes I know what I like.

(The indifferent children of the earth)

Their uniforms glow blue-white in the UV lights that make us all look tan and turn blond hair green and alien. All six little tables are full, the three barstools occupied, girls waiting their turns for the back corridor with four private dance chairs. The boys in the uniforms can get in, it’s a juice bar, you can’t have pastied nipples and alcohol in the same room within city limits. My pasties are silver (an improvement on the cow-print from my first day, they come in sizes and that's what was available), sequined, glued on with children’s craft glue. Wear them home, soften the glue under the shower and it hurts less to take them off. I am having a great night. Good hair, a new teddy pinched from my mother’s drawer. Over to the uniforms, who probably don’t have any money because they’re all around my age.

“Hello, Thomas Marshall Perry the Fourth.”

His buddies break up, “She knows you man, she knows you!” He’s cautious and puzzled and as formally polite as he was in the 8th grade.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure…”

“Remember Mandy Muse from the eighth grade?”

His jaw drops. I thought that was a figure of speech. He introduces me to the banana heir, the computer heir, and the local scion. They’re all celebrating graduation from the local military academy. I assume he’s a scholarship boy.

(Had he the motive and the cue for passion that I have?)

I dance on the six-foot by four-foot stage (I don’t know how Felicia does cartwheels on it) to the Cure, Madonna, Vanity 6

Tonight, I'm living in a fantasy My own little nasty world Tonight, don't u wanna come with me? Do u think I'm a Nasty Girl?

Thomas clearly does. He tips. I take him back to the private dance corridor.

“It’s five with my top on or ten topless. You can touch me from here…to here… if my top is on.”

I don’t remember his choice. I remember him writing his phone number on a napkin, Thom Perry. I remember his hands on me in the car, after Olive Garden, as swanky as a high school date could get. We sit at the waterfront, the seats reclined, he doesn’t feel the need to talk. He wants to take me to a classroom on his campus with a broken door lock, but I won’t go, I don’t remember why. I’m ready to get out of town, I’d rather not be here for graduation. We write, a little. We phone, a little – there are no cell phones, I stand at the payphone outside Mucho Taco at 3AM.

Midway through his college freshman year, I see his obituary, “self-inflicted wounds.” That's all I know. That's still all I know.

Tuesday, May 8, 2007

...Sitting at the Metro waiting for Computer Whiz to pick me up. Little white PT Cruiser pulls up, two white girls with heavy makeup and heavy breasts, waiting in the pickup lane. Five or six minutes later, a blue sedan pulls up next to them. Two young black men inside, thumpy-thumpy music. The passenger in the sedan reaches out of his window, passes a roll of cash to the girl driving the PT. She briefly inspects it, says something, and the men drive off. The PT drives off. Guess I'm not the only one in town on a secret mission...

..Power Girl and I invite Secret Scientist over for guacamole and hanging out. He kisses me while she’s in the shower. We watch Discovery and mock the Jeff Corwin Experience. I walk Secret Scientist out to his car and tell him I love flirting with him, but don’t let me infringe on his life. He doesn’t have a problem with kissing me some more. Or letting me touch his cock through his pants...

...Hairline Boy has continued to give me sparkly eyes, and I learn through sources that he, too, has a girlfriend. I no longer feel guilty for not liking him back. However, he is deeply sweet. When he hugs me hard I say, "Are you having a Jimmy Carter moment?" He looks puzzled. I say, "I hay-ave committed aduhltery in mah heart many taimes." Recognition dawns. Later, another hug. "Jimmy Carter moment?" "Jimmy Carter moment."

Mon 30th Apr, 07

The best of this weeks blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #78? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.